


And the Lightpoints

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: You Only Meant Well? [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Matchmaking, Non-Binary Frisk, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route - "I want to stay with you.", Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9506960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Toriel's never changed a lightbulb, Sans feigns oblivion, and Frisk spies an opportunity.Or: "You are my doubtingand the lightpointsin my eyes."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duster/gifts).



> This is a gift for the wonderful duster, whose comments have always brightened my day and inspired me to keep writing. This lovely little story was based on duster's answer to my "I want to write a story for you!" inquiry, involving Soriel, Post-True-Pacifist, domesticity, hurt/comfort, aaand . . . a smooch.
> 
> I added the fluff. ;)
> 
> (duster, seriously, thank you so, _so_ much for your kindness. I hope you enjoy.)
> 
> I guess this could be a prelude to [_If You Talk Enough Sense_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8880370), so I might toss this at the beginning of the series as a whole. We'll see. (Heh. I've said that before, haven't I?)
> 
> [Edit: Lookee there, look what I did!]
> 
> The title and "Or:" flavor-text are from a poem by Rumi entitled "The Blocked Road." I've been reading a lot of his poetry lately and find it absolutely gorgeous.
> 
> Reviews/thoughts/comments'n'critiques are, of course, all welcome. <3 I hope the rest of you dear readers enjoy this as well.

  _Here, with him, in this darkness—_

_In the light, perhaps, she'll tell him everything._

_Not now._

* * *

 

"Crystals were much easier."

Toriel frowns, fumbling with a box of precious, fragile glass-things: lightbulbs, Frisk had said. The lamps in her own home had been powered by such crystal-light, of course, and most Monsters had the benefit of the CORE-generated geo-thermic energy. Now, though—now there are mornings such as this when the bathroom light _pops_ , flares bright, leaves them in darkness . . .

Frisk, amused, watches from the doorway as Sans gently takes the box from her—however well-intentioned, she often doesn't realize her own strength. "Well," they reason gently, "Humans don't have magic, and . . . You've been to Waterfall, right, Mom?"

"Of course, my child, long ago . . ."

"The _lanterns_ weren't much fun."

A soft laugh this earns from the Boss Monster, and then silence from them both as Sans carefully wrangles a lightbulb from the box.

"so, frisk, what's next?"

"Oh." Frisk glances upwards slowly, frowning as they realize they should perhaps have had them do this first. "Uhm. You have to uncap the—that decorative glass—so you can unscrew the old bulb."

Toriel's silhouette, half-cast by the fading hallway light, shifts awkwardly—her head, which is to say nothing of her horns, almost touches the ceiling—and glances down helplessly at Sans. "That screw is quite small . . . I'm afraid that even my claws are much too big—"

"hm." Sans sets the open box and freed bulb on the counter of the sink. "frisk, you want in on this?"

The Human child shakes their head, bemused, wondering how far's too far to still find this amusing. "No, you go ahead."

"well. tori. uh. can you . . ."

Frisk catches a gleam of deep vermillion eyes, wonders what to read there, wonders what _he_ sees—Sans, who can tell so much from an expression . . . Not so long it's been since they've been on the Surface, but . . . there's a subtle . . . distance . . . these two have kept from one another: not avoidance, no—indeed, Sans seems to come over to the house any chance he gets—but . . . Frisk remembers vaguely just how close they stayed to one another in the Underground, before Flowey and after—but now those few feet seem . . . intentional . . .

And suddenly they wonder if this was a good idea after all.

The light needed changing, nothing doing about _that_ , but easily enough they could have bought the bulbs and asked Toriel for help—why else rope Sans into it except—

Well, there were the Royal Guards.

And Alphys and Undyne.

Maybe all they really need is—

But—

Whispering to Sans to be honest with his feelings or having Mom write some impassioned letter don't seem to be the wisest options—and now, neither does this.

Convulsively they swallow. "H-hey. I can. Mom, Sans, I can . . . do it for you, if you want."

"Oh." Mild surprise in Toriel's voice. "Oh, do not worry so, my child, I am sure that we can handle it." A pause. "Can we not? Is there something that you know—?"

—Those words strike a dark, deep place and Frisk shakes their head adamantly, forcing from mind, for now, all but the two Monsters before them and this mess they've unintentionally made. "No, I'm sure you've goat this."

A huff from Toriel, no more; Sans chuckles lightly, tosses Frisk the box. "hang onto those, bucko."

He stands there for a moment, the bulb glinting from between his metacarpals, caught up once again in the residual light from the hall. Suddenly Frisk realizes that, well, if they've put them here—maybe they shouldn't stay. Maybe . . . that distance . . . maybe the way Mom often stares out the window after he leaves . . . the thread of tenderness Sans always weaves throughout his words when speaking of her . . . Maybe it's always about moments such as this.

Wordlessly they clutch the box, step back, feign a glance towards the front door they can't really see.

"I think P'yrus will be back soon from Alphys and Undyne's . . . I'll . . . go keep an eye out."

* * *

Sans gives an awkward shrug. "well, they didn't have to."

"No. He's not due back for a while. But . . ."

"kinda glad they did."

Silence for a moment. In the dim half-light they catch each other's faces; beyond the gleaming of her fangs and the echoed, bright-vermillion eyes, there are the soft, soft tufts of fur and sure, the lightbulb needs changing—so there's that—but more than anything—just to be so close to her—

Sometimes he _hates_ the Surface, for moments such as this. Moments when suddenly he doesn't know what the hell to do because it's all, it's all out of even Frisk's control, except—

* * *

Toriel watches him intently, disconcerted at the expressions gathered on his face, the way his phalanges shiver around that delicate glass-thing, that lightbulb. What's startled her the most is that, despite his ever-present grin, the lightpoints there in his eyesockets, the shadows of his jaw, the cheekbones, the divots there just at his brow . . . they convey just as much, if not more, as the expression of any Monster given flesh.

"Sans? What is it, dear one?"

Over the weeks she's begun to catch on, too, to those hidden facets of him—things she can't yet name but oh, how much they must haunt him—

"nothin', tori. let's. uh. let's just."

(And she'll never say, never, not as she stoops down and holds out her arms, how much she's wanted this—just this—how much she's wondered how he'll feel—a being made of bones and magic, ah, will he have the weight of less even than a child or will his SOUL . . . ? Will he be much more to bear?)

* * *

Frisk unlatches the door, steps onto the porch, breathes deeply in the stillness and settles down to wait. Not long, they know—Papyrus certainly won't be home so soon—but—well, yes, perhaps it's best that they give Mom and Sans some time.

* * *

His mind quietly tries to wrap itself around what's happening, but that's not going so well.

There's the generous softness of her, the sweet-smelling fabric of her dress, the feel of her great, broad paws as she cradles him so gently—even through his coat she takes great care to mold her grasp to the myriad curves of his body—the ribs and the spine in particular—

He decides it's good enough that he doesn't need to breathe.

Makes it easier to keep a poker face—but she—

* * *

Toriel purses her lips in a little frown of concentration, sure that he can feel the sudden, rapid thrumming of her pulse, which is to say nothing of her SOUL—ah, no—he's trying so hard to remain stoic but _that_ , the subtle, erratic flashes of cyan—that he cannot hide from her—and yes, just as she's imagined, there's much more to him there beneath her paws than bones—not a body—of course not—but—his SOUL—it seems so much the whole of him—

Somehow his hands are steady, somehow his phalange-tips don't shake as he unscrews the screw, tucks the glass plate under one arm, reaches up and loosens the old bulb.

Toriel can't help but gasp—it tinkles, gently, like the softest bell.

"broken filaments," Sans murmurs. A pause. "D a r k n e s s  s u r e  s o u n d s  p r e t t y,  h u h?"

Beneath him the great Boss Monster shivers. "Do not say such things, dear one."

"eh, sorry, tori. here. it's easy to fix."

Broken bulb in one hand, he reaches with the other to twist the new one home.

"You seem to know well what you're doing."

A shrug of strong-boned shoulders that subtly shifts him in her grasp. "i guess."

_Then why ask Frisk—?_

A final turn; Sans drops his hand.

But still there is no light.

A questioning sound from Tori leaves a genuine grin across his face. "still gotta hit the light-switch."

"Ah."

Neither of them move.

"Sometimes," she whispers finally, "sometimes I do not like the Surface much. Things are very new and strange."

"yeah. i get that, tori. heh. believe you me. it's . . . sometimes, it's . . ."

"But we are still here."

"uh huh."

"The Humans . . . sometimes . . . not all of them are like our Frisk."

_. . . our?_

And far too heavy is that thing to hold; he gives a hollow laugh. "aw, tori, what's got your goat?"

"Just that!" A sudden spike of true frustration from her catches him off guard; he twists to better see her face, finding only that she's turned away, towards the half of the room that's cast still to shadows. "That is _not_ what I am, but it's what they see."

"i. geez, tori, i . . ."

"I am not upset with you," she amends quickly, turning back to him, those wide and deep-set eyes seeming to pierce his very SOUL. "With you, I do not mind as much, because you—you see me for who I am, dear one, and they . . ."

She shakes her head; one soft, soft ear catches his cheek and he can't help but shudder, clenches his teeth over a cry.

"Dear one, are you—"

"fine, tori. just . . . fine. just . . ."

"Sans." Toriel can't bear to look at him, not quite directly, takes to shifting her weight from foot to foot, swaying there with him, as she's so often rocked a child—so many children not her own. "Sans, I . . ."

Something subtle stops her, a slight tugging, a quiet voice whispering, _Not yet._ There are always times for words, always times to bare one's SOUL. But words aren't always needed for that—no—and perhaps this is one of them, the two of them crowded so awkwardly into a darkened bathroom, of all things.

All they'd need to do is flip on the switch again, and there'd be light.

And yet—

Here, with him, in this darkness—

In the light, perhaps, she'll tell him everything.

Not now.

* * *

She turns her head, ear brushing at his cheek again. She feels him clutch reflexively at her shoulder, can't help but manage a small smile, is sure now beyond a doubt that he feels the joy radiating from her SOUL—or he must hear her breath catch.

And then his hand slips up to touch her face, so gently—seeing how he treats Papyrus and the child, ah, it should not surprise her so—but to be, herself, the object of that grace—

"tori. you should know . . . i . . . there's so much i . . ."

"Shh. Dear one."

She's never quite stopped swaying, the motions soothing to the both of them; she wills him, tenderly, to look at her, and so he does.

* * *

Toriel kneels down, sets him on his feet, doesn't let go. Gently she takes the old, dark-cast, laughing lightbulb from him, puts it down, doesn't know where, it doesn't matter. And then both arms are wrapped around him once again; for a moment, thus, they stand. The soft whuffing of her breath stirs against his cheek, and somehow even this involuntary thing seems to him like something sacred shared.

She pauses, considering the fact that maybe this is something in her head, no more, considering that perhaps she's just projecting her centuries-old loneliness and longing onto him—but no—how could something like that be, when this is Sans, who at times has so little tact? If he were afraid, if this were not what he wanted, too, would he not have said it long ago?

_Anyway . . . but . . . how? We are not so much alike, you and I, dear one . . ._ As if bound by some unseen string she feels the tremor of his SOUL, the same quickened urgency, uncertainty. _And not so different, either . . ._

Sans stands up on tiptoe, finally, eyes wide open in the dark—if he catches the vermillion depths of hers, ah, he's sure she'd like to see the lightpoints of his own. Tenderly he presses his jaw against her cheek, trembles at the brushing of her fangs against his skull.

"here."

Another tugging at the string, a sweet kind of ache that sends shockwaves through her SOUL, through his. Stock-still, awe-struck, their eyes meet and they understand, lean into it: Toriel, who's known what it is to kiss a Monster given flesh, recognizes even in this act the same nuances, the same love and desire: his SOUL seems to trail cyan threads around her own and she responds in kind with light—the most dazzling-deep-blue Sans has ever seen.

* * *

How long they linger there they do not know. Toriel vaguely registers her aching knees and the tile hard beneath her. Shyly—she, a mother, queen, a wife, a lover—shyly still, as if he were the first for her to kiss—she glances at him, glad now for the darkness to hide the blush beneath her fur, the same fur that he now so gently brushes with a hand.

Quietly he chuckles.

"welp, tori, i think that's how it's done."

Reflexively he reaches for the light-switch, only to find her paw's there first, covering the latch. He catches the flashing of her smiling teeth, all innocence, all hope.

". . . Not just yet, dear one."

**Author's Note:**

> PS: I should add that I _totally_ call Toriel "Goat Mom."  <3 I guess I just got to wondering what she might think.
> 
> PPS: Does this mean Sans and Tori get to learn all about lightbulb jokes?
> 
> . . . oh boy. Poor Frisk and Papyrus!


End file.
